At Least This
by Toblerone
Summary: Yes I know random title but whatever. A little AU set sometime after Out. ML of course and fairly fluffy. It's been done to death, but I don't care. Reviews Appreciated. Complete.
1. After

**Disclaimer: Max, Logan, Kedra and everything/else related to Dark Angel belongs to someone else. I own nothing. **

**AN: Okay so I recently bought the first season of DA (Yay for sales at best buy!) and this little scene just came to me after watching (and rewatching and rewatching...) Out and it just stuck in my head and wouldn't leave me alone. It is a bit of a AU and can be set oh just about anytime after Out that you like. It's such a clichéd and overdone kind of story, but I don't care. We all need a little fluff sometimes. **

**The story-fairy keeps bugging me about doing a Max perspective to this but I don't think it really needs one. It might be nice though.. a little companion piece... hmmm... oh, crap...damn you story-fairy, damn you to hell. **

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**At Least This**

_By Toblerone_

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The first thing he hears upon waking is the muffled sound of pre-pulse rap music. Someone a floor or two below them is blasting it as loud as it will go. He glances at the red numbers of the alarm clock on the table next to her bed, and wonders absently wonders about the sort of people who would be playing music that loud at four in the morning. His mind clouded slightly by only a few hours sleep, he forgets momentarily that her neighbors aren't like his. Rich forgetful old ladies hardly ever cause such a raucous.

When he hears a fairly loud crash as the music stops, followed by some harsh sounding tones, he begins to sleepily ponder about the whereabouts of the owner of the bed he'd fallen asleep in. The place where she had been laying as he'd happily drifted off to unconsciousness earlier is still fairly warm. _She hasn't been long too long_ he muses _and she doesn't need sleep after all. _Still he'd much rather have her with him where he can see her and touch her and in general be reassured of the actuality of the night's earlier activities. The fact that he is in her apartment, in her bed, naked, should be assurance enough he knows, but the lack of her presence is slightly disquieting.

He looks over at the empty wheel chair next to the bed, within arms length, with his wrinkled clothing atop the seat, and considers dressing and going to look for her. He is slightly startled by how out of place his shiny chair seems among her things, but he finds he is oddly comforted by the sight of his crumpled clothes. The missing buttons from his new blue shirt are nowhere in sight. Their absence reminds him of eager hands and heavy breathing.

He groans as he pushes up on his arms into and blearily searches for his glasses, unsure where they landed in the scramble. His only light comes from the orange streetlight outside and a few candles that haven't burnt out yet, so his search is pretty much futile. He sighs as he lays back, putting his hands behind his head and staring up at the slightly cracked ceiling. _Probably wouldn't have been able to find her anyway. _A vision of her in black zooming on her bike through the wet streets comes to him. She never wears a helmet; she keeps one for others but refuses to wear it herself. It worries him. Many things worry him. She always tells him to lighten up and invites him to Crash. He always refuses and thinks unhappily that maybe one day she'd just stop asking, which usually makes him both relieved and depressed. Her friends surely would have noticed the way he stared at her.

Before, in between explorative kisses and blissful inhalations he told her, many times, just how beautiful he thought she was. More than once, he had come dangerously close to confessing how deeply he felt for her. The words had nearly spilt out of him at particularly passionate moments. Her deep eyes and shinning smile would suddenly overpower him and the urge to tell her that he loved her more than anything would seize him. In the same moment though, images of his family's cabin and her form as she walked away would come. She would leave if she knew. He was sure. And it would destroy him.

For months he has been telling himself that pressing for anything more than their miraculous friendship would be suicide. There was no way she could ever feel even remotely similar. No way. He was what remained of the once strong and powerful underground journalist Logan Cale. She was Max. There was no way.

Now though, with her sent lingering around him and memory of the taste of the creamy sauce they had eaten(which she definitely had Kendra make for her) stillfresh in his memory, he couldn't help but wonder if/hope that maybe he meant as much to her as she did to him. What had started as a simple "how about we try this me-cooking-for-you-for-once thing again," dinner between friends had progressed to something he had been dreaming about for longer than he'd like to admit. One minute they had been laughing at some mundane workplace accident, the next they were locked in the kind of fervent embrace that was usually saved for tragic love stories. If you asked him now how they had managed to move to her room, transfer him to the bed, and get past of awkwardness of the "things might work differently for me now"-"I know, we'll be alright"-conversation so quickly, he wouldn't be able to tell you. It was all a blur of wonderful desperation and disbelief. He is still a little bit in shock.

He hears the front door open and close and then the voices of two female voices whispering. _Girl talk? _He hears bits of the conversation: a "Damn 2B with his stupid boom box-" and a "You did what?" Kendra hadn't been around during dinner and he wonders when exactly she came back to the apartment. She must have noticed the conspicuous unwashed plates and half full glasses of wine when she first arrived. He can only imagine the teasing Max was to receive from her roommate, and is relieved that he won't have to deal with Bling for at least a few hours.

He feels her presence suddenly and looks over at her leaning against the frame of her plywood door, watching him. Having not heard the conversation end or the squeak of the door opening, he is slightly startled to find himself so suddenly under her scrutiny. She studies him for a minute and he wonders what exactly it is she sees. His long form sprawled out on her small bed? Or some deeper analysis?

"Hey," she says quietly before he can think too much about it. "Hey yourself," he replies, taking in her soft smile and somewhat tousled hair. He can't help but smile back as she removes her worn bathrobe revealing a small red tank-top and his stolen, plaid boxers. She throws the robe with the rest of his clothes on the chair. _No tearing through the streets tonight then, I guess. _"Where'd you go?" he whispers gravelly as she slides up next to him under the sheets.

"Had to take care of some noisy idiots," he chuckles, remembering the crash from a few floors below. _Of course,_ he thinks.

"Max," he murmurs bemusedly as he runs a hand through her curly hair. It's soft. _Everything is soft_, he marvels.

She continues to study him as she lightly caresses his arm, up and down. Her look is thoughtful, as if she too is questioning the reality of the situation they've found themselves in. She leans close to him and gives him a gentle kiss before pulling back to whisper, "go to sleep."

"Do I have to?" he doesn't want to wake up without her again. Next time he will surely be alone in his apartment staring up at his familiar ceiling, trying simultaneously to remember and forget the details of an incredible dream.

"Yes. Sleep. Now." Ever the field commander, she is both playful and demanding at the same time. She is amazing. She is his.

She touches his face and he closes he eyes at her touch. "You're tired," she informs him, "it's four in the morning… mere mortals need some shut eye, even the all powerful Eyes Only."

"You won't leave?" he murmurs, almost nonsensically, exhaustion taking its toll once again.

"I'm not going anywhere," she quietly assures.

He pulls her close, inhaling her sent, trying his best to memorize every detail before drifting off. _Please don't let this be a dream, let me have at least this_. He feels her warm breath drift over him and one hand tangle its fingers with his own.

"I love you," he breathes sleepily, forgetfully. She pulls him closer to her. "I know," she breathes back, "I know."

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**So there it is. Hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are always appreciated.**


	2. Later

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! Nothing! NOTHING:begins to cry:**

**A/N: Oh my gosh, wow. Did not think I would actually write this... but I did... oh dear, this can't end well. **

**This one is from Max's pov (more or less), so, there you go. **

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**At Least This**

**_Part II _**

_By Toblerone_

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Waking up is always a surprising feeling for one who never sleeps. It's startling, often even confusing. She always feels as if she has missed something. Quickly she pushes past the fogginess of sleep. _What's happening? Why was I asleep? What woke me up? _A flurry of thoughts bombards her. _Analyze the situation. Formulate a plan. _

His form, so close, halts all examination and preparation. He stops all her Manticore instincts and plotting in an instant, without even waking up. _Typical._ She can't help but gaze, almost in awe, at his scruffy face.

Moving so that she is closer, she wonders when she had slipped out of his embrace. She has to remind herself not to hold him too tightly. She is acutely aware that her grip can bruise, that her hands can snap bones, and that her actions can scar and break with out much thought or effort. Many times, she has sworn, both unconsciously and deliberately, to protect him from all harm. More often than not, she finds she is trying to save him from herself. She is the greatest danger he comes in contact with – most of the time - or so it would seem.

She breathes in deeply before pulling back slightly. Her fingers gently slide across his cheek. His breathing is even and his features relaxed – at peace even. For a minute she feels overwhelmed and she rolls over so that her back is to him. The whole scene is surreal. The two of them tangled together in her tiny bed in her dirty apartment.

It isn't what she usually pictures. Usually (frequently) she envisions them his comfortable penthouse with candles, soft music and matching, half full, wine glasses. They lay in his spacious bed, covered in clean white sheets – the lighting low, the timing perfect. Her daydreams rarely ever feature the two of them at her place. She finds that she doesn't mind that things didn't turn out the way she'd imagined.

Last night, when she had fluttered anxiously about the kitchen as Kendra explained the finer points of seductive sauce making, the fantasy would suddenly rise up in her mind and fill her with an excited nervousness. As quick as the visions would enter her head though, she would force them out. _He's the best friend you've ever had, why try to mess that up? Not smart. Not safe. Try to control yourself around him… for once…_

But then they'd been laughing and smiling and he was looking at her the way he did. His face had been close to hers suddenly, yet not unexpectedly (her couch was quite small, after all) and he moved forward just a few centimeters before he caught himself and froze. She had seen that look before, on other men, and on a few unguarded occasions with him as well. He'd wanted to kiss her, maybe just as badly as she wanted to kiss him.

Later, maybe she would blame it on the wine or his incredible eyes. But then, at that moment, with his stubbly face within reach and his expression confused and conflicted, and even a little bit sorrowful – she just couldn't help herself anymore. He so near, and she could smell his aftershave and his Logan smell that she'd memorized, and he was the only person who knew what she was, and he looked at her like she was more, like she was human, and his smile was enough brighten up her whole day, and there and then she simply wanted to have what she so craved, even if it was just this once.

So she grabbed him and kissed him… and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him… and he kissed her back…

She turns back and studies him again, but the great wonder that is Logan Cale remains a mystery to her. _Of course_. She shifts so that she is closer to him again and lifts his arm gently so that she is encased in his embrace. As she relaxes into his warm form, she allows herself to wonder what it might be like to be forever like this. _Forever with him._

One day she will have to leave, she knows. She will flee to the darkest, deepest, most obscure hiding places imaginable. She will change the way her hair looks and probably even her eye color and maybe wait tables at some small dinner in the middle of some hick town. She'll sit on top of buildings and stare at nothing remembering only the way he whispered that she was beautiful and incredible over and over. She'll recall that his hair was always every which way and remember the way his eyes would focus on her and her alone. She'll sympathize entirely too much with the heroines of those disastrous love stories that are on TV, late at night, in certain bars. Sometimes she'll cry a little and long for better circumstances.

She hopes their separation will be that peaceful. In actually she probably will bleed or stave (most likely both), in some cell, thinking only of the man who told her that he loved her one time. She can only hope that the last thing she dreams about, before her death or indoctrination, is his comforting presence.

She'll miss him terribly… especially now, after their glorious lapse in judgment and his sleepy declaration…

It is not the first time that she's wanted to claim something. When one never has anything that truly belongs to them, they often yearn for something to call their own. The only thing she has managed to hold onto for an extended period of time (a few years) is her motorcycle… She's very protective of her bike… but one day it'll be gone too.

Still, for a few minutes, she lets herself pretend that he is hers to have.

"Mine," she says quietly, without meaning to, "you're mine."

She hears Kendra's alarm go off, and smiles a little at the resulting grumblings. Glancing back at her own digital clock she sees that it's six o'clock. She's been asleep for about two hours. _Wow. New record? Probably._

_Have to go to work… eventually…_ Sighing, she memorizes everything around her that she can, for future fantasies and reminiscences, before she begins to move out of his arms.

The movement wakes him slightly. He tightens his grip, groans slightly, andattempts to pull her back to him.

"Where ya' going," he says groggily.

"Shower, then work," she regretfully informs.

"No, no I don't think so," He tugs her back to him, his eyes still only half open. They lie on their sides, facing each other. She smiles at his playfulness, something she's rarely ever seen before

"I have to. Have to get paid," She runs a hand through his messy hair and kisses him, despite her own protests. He deepens the kiss and runs a hand down her back. Shivering a little, she breaks the kiss.

"Seriously," he moves his lips to her neck, "Logan, you…" she trails off when he finds the particularly sensitive spot at the base of her neck, that he had discovered (quite happily) the night before.

"I have to-"

"No you don't," his voice is soft and pleading, and she wonders at his behavior. He is playful and even somewhat forceful this morning.

He moves back to her lips and she closes her eyes and decides that she really doesn't feel like seeing Normal anytime soon.

_I want to stay. I just want to stay with him. _

The relief on his face is fairly obvious when she murmurs a simple "okay."

"Good," his sighs, ashis nervousness beginning to dissipate.

_He doesn't want this to end either. _She touches his face and stares into his endless eyes. _Maybe he needs me just as badly as I need him. _

_I wish this could last. _

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**Okay, for those of you who were disappointed with the terrible amount angst in this chap, my apologies. I didn't mean for it to turn out so angsty, it just sort of happened. Sorry. **

**But, fear not dear readers! There is one more (hopefully only one more..) chap in the works that is significantly more upbeat (Yay!). There will be some teasing and hopefully some flirting and maybe our dear heroes will have some of their deeper insecurities somewhat taken care of (although not completely, of course, as that would be a miracle of science, and I'm no scientist... not yet any way...: devious laughter:) **

**Wow, I'm a crazy person! **

**Reviews always appreciated. Thanks. **


	3. Forever

**Diclaimer: It's not mine... le sigh... **

**A/N: Wow, people I am so sorry that this took so long. But, I do have a valid excuse, I recently moved from New York to California so things were pretty hectic for a while with all the planes and boxes and stuff. **

**Anyway, forget whatever it was I promised in the last chapter because this story I've rewritten and changed a lot sinse I posted that last chapter. But, I think it turned out alright in the end. Enjoy.**

**PS Sighting is being worked on still, so fear not! This is not the last you'll hear from Toblerone! Chocolate forever! **

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**At Least This **

_**Part III**_

_By Toblerone_

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Once again he wakes to an empty bed. Eyes not yet open, he slides a hand over the empty space she has left. The glowing red digits of her alarm clock inform him that it is half past nine in the morning. He hasn't slept this late in a while. He like to get an early start on his investigations normally, he sees no reason to waste precious hours snoozing. He does not think he will get much work done today though.

Seeing no point in laying awake in Max's (surprising comfortable) bed without her with him, he sits up and begins to move his lifeless legs. For moment he allows himself to stare down at his feet touching her floor, dishearteningly observing how skinny they've gotten. He wonders if Max noticed, and if it bothered her at all. Sure, her attention had mostly seemed to be focused on his upper torso, where he still has sensation, but still he wonders… and worries.

His wheelchair is thankfully still within reach. His button-less shirt is gone, but his stolen boxers are now folded atop his pants. His glasses are still nowhere to be found. His eyebrow quirks at his lack of a shirt (he's sure he saw it earlier…), but he decides to make do with what he has and proceeds to dress himself. It's not until places his bare feet on the footrests that he realizes he has no idea where his socks and shoes are. He tries to recall when and where they were removed, but his memory fails him. _Did Max take them off or did I? _

He finds the kitchen and living area empty and for a moment dread fills him. Has she come to her senses and fled the apartment to avoid any further awkwardness? Is she hoping he'll just take the hint and leave before she comes back?

She emerges from Kendra's curtained room before he can get too lost in his fears. He's seen her in the tank top before but never in the pajama bottoms. He'd never pictured her as someone who would wear plaid purple cotton, but he supposes one can never tell that sort of thing. Her hair up in a pony tail, and he decides he likes it that way. He wonders if she ever wears her hair up, neck exposed, around Kendra or Cindy. They know nothing of Manticore, of barcodes, of a fateful frozen night, of getting stuck under the ice while Jondy ran. Only he knows.

Her eyes run over his shirtless upper body for a moment before (almost regretfully) presenting him with faded, gray men's T-shirt.

"Kendra collects them," she explains as he scrutinizes the fairly worn garment.

She shrugs in response to his somewhat dubious look.

"I'm fairly sure she washes them," she says with a teasing smirk.

"Great."

"Hey, that one smelled the best."

"Wonderful…"

There's an awkward pause. The talking and touching that was so easy earlier in the morning seems to elude them now. They're no longer lying level face to face, forced by a lack of space to be close to one another. They're clothed and apart now, and she's standing again while he's still sitting. He has to look up to look her in the eye, as is normally the case. This reminder of the usual makes him nervous. He tries to push the nagging, persistent doubts aside. He'd been so sure, previous to last night, that his feelings were one sided.

He slips the shirt on as she turns and heads towards the fridge. It's a little small for him. He wonders if Kendra has a preference for thin men, never suspecting that the tight fit is the exact reason that this particular shirt was chosen.

"So, I've got good news," his view of her is obstructed as she rummages through the rusty 'fridge, but the cheeriness in her voice calms him.

"Oh?"

"Yes," she offers no explanation, only smirks. Their roles constantly seem to reverse at unexpected intervals. He is often the optimist, but not always, and on those rare occasions that his outlook darkens and he stares solemnly out rainy windows, she'll softly sympathize or teasingly barb, until his only contemplations involve her soft eyes and rare grins. Sometimes it is she who comforts, rather than him.

"Are you going to tell me the good news or do I have to guess?"

"We," she presents a carton triumphantly "have eggs."

"That is good news," he replies with a smile. Her enthusiasm is infectious and he lets it take hold of him.

"But, wait, there's more," she grins mischievously and he decides she looks particularly beautiful this morning.

"What could possibly compete with us having eggs?"

"Well," she leaves the eggs on the counter and makes her way to him.

"I just happen to have my own personal culinary miracle worker at my disposal this morning," she finds herself touching him with out even really thinking about it. Her fingers lightly caress the side of his face and then trail down his neck. She watches as he swallows and idly wonders at the sudden change in temperature.

"Do you?" he asks huskily, his throat suddenly dry. She leans down and kisses him quickly on lips before moving to his neck.

"I do," she breathes into his ear as she settles into his lap.

"Well that is extremely convenient," he comments, shuddering as he silently prays that he'll never wake from the incredibly prolonged daydream he's found himself in.

"It is," she replies, before taking what is hers.

He sinks into the kiss, but is hesitant to touch her at first. He has to remind himself that it was only a few hours ago that she was breathily assuring that she loved the way he touched her. When she had began to pull away from him, earlier in the morning he'd been caught in that strange place between sleep and wakefulness and had responded instinctively – the way he would have in a dream. Now, she seeks him out, which reassures him tremendously. Soon, all he can focus on is the way her mouth moves against his and how he likes the way it feels when she runs her hands through his hair.

"I like doing that," she says after pulling her lips away, resting her forehead against his.

"Me too," he murmurs.

They sit for a moment, savoring their closeness before she slides away from him again.

"Okay, so food," she states with a somewhat false determination.

"Yes," he chuckles, glad that he's not the only one hopelessly distracted, "food."

"Make me eggs. I'm going to fix your shirt."

He snorts. "My shirt?"

She points to the table where they had enjoyed dinner the night before, where his missing garments are now neatly arranged. His torn shirt (next to a very small pile of buttons), shoes, socks, jacket, and glasses sit atop the table as if they had been there all along, had he cared to look. She grabs the glasses before he can, and happily placing them behind his ears, letting the bridge fall at the very edge of his nose.

"I was wondering what you had done with all my clothes."

"I like you better without 'em." She replies seriously, without hesitation. He feels his face burn in spite of himself. She makes him feel like a teenager, smiling in a way that makes him gulp. Everything seems new and not quite allowed.

"Kendra could only find four."

"Four?" He is still somewhat dazed.

"Buttons." She decides she rather likes it when he's like this. Enlightening conversations about life, poverty, and the American-way and mentally stimulating chess matches are all very well and interesting (even enjoyable at times) but, she muses, nothing can compare to having your heart's desire stutter and stammer… Over you…

"Oh…" his mind catches up, "you can sew?" He raises an eyebrow incredulously.

"Yeah, I can sew," she rolls her eyes, "I'm a bike messenger Logan, you get caught on stuff, or it rains or some idiot bumps into you. You gotta know the basics if you want to survive in this city Logan."

"Oh I see. Yes survival is very important. But Max," he says very seriously, "correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't food just a tad bit important for the hard core bike messenger on the go?"

"Hey! I may not be a gourmet chef, but I know how to feed myself."

"Max, I never, ever, suspected that you have any sort of trouble feeding yourself. You feed yourself just fine every time you're in my apartment… sometimes when I'm not even ther—"

"Ok, do you want this shirt fixed or not?"

"Yes. That way I can use all four buttons to cover myself."

"Exactly, there's no downside to this."

He blushes again and wonders how long it will take for him to get used to her sweeping looks and alluring flattery.

Feigning a stern look, she points in the direction of her stove. He rolls his eyes, softly grinning to himself, content to do as she wishes. Her kitchen – the counters and stove – are a little high for him from the chair, but he manages as best he can. He's become a master at improvising in awkward spaces.

She threads the needle on the first try, as she always does. The thread is a light gray, but she hopes it will pass as white. She hasn't seen real white thread in years. It's strange, the things that are missing from the post pulse world. Gray and brown are common but black, white and blue are rare. She supposes that it must have something to do with the dyes. Maybe all the good thread goes to those who can afford it, just like with everything else in America.

She doesn't realize how domestic the scene they present is, until the third button is securely sewn. She pauses to watch his long fingers grip the spatula. He hums to himself when he cooks. She never comments on it, she teases him about many things but the humming is sacred. It's like when he rubs his hands up and down his thighs when he's nervous or anxious, or how he taps his pencil against his note pad when an errant thought escaped him. Or the tender look he thinks she never sees, when he stares at her. During particularly lonely moments she'll think of his unconscious, endearing quirks. They always make her feel less alone. She has no idea why.

_I chose to stay_. She thinks, out of the blue._ Zack made me leave but I came back. I stayed. For him. With him. _

And just like that she knows. With perfect clarity she sees past her own fears and defenses – she can't leave him. She couldn't before, she'd tried and failed. Lydecker could come tomorrow and find out where she worked, where she lived and it wouldn't matter. Black SUVs could surround Jam Pony and still she would stay.

_Come hell or high water… _

There'd been an emptiness all her life, that she had never truly understood. Something was missing. She'd assumed the gap inside her was somehow related to her lack of humanity. Maybe when she found her family, people like her, she would feel whole. Maybe she'd feel like a _real_ girl did. But then there he was, and she felt alive when he was near. She could breathe easy and relax in a way she'd never imagined. She wasn't a failed experiment or a super soldier when he looked at her the way he did. She was Max.

_I love him. _He feels her gaze and looks over with an easy smile. _I love him. _

"Done. Help me with the plates?"

"Ok." She nods and leaves the ruined shirt.

They eat in relative silence. She's quiet now and it makes him a little uneasy, but she doesn't seem upset. When they finish she places her hand over his. She says nothing, looking their overlapping fingers, noticing the differences in size and color. His fingers are so long – the kind a musician or surgeon should have – while hers were relatively small in comparison.

"Max?"

"I want this." Her voice is soft and he can barely hear her. She doesn't elaborate or even look at him.

"What?"

"_this" _could mean anything, he knows, but for once he dares to hope. _Oh please, please mean what I think you mean._

"This," her eyes meet his, "Us. You."

Elation he doesn't even fully comprehend envelops him. She stares at their hands again, missing his joyful grin.

"I know that we're really… I know I'm this crazy revved _thing_, and you have enough stuff to deal without all my problems, but do you think that maybe we could… that we could try?"

He's astonished at her shaky request and her unsure expression. Could it be that she had been uncertain about her position in his heart? How could she not know how totally and completely he admired her, pined for her, loved her?

He takes her face in his hands and before she can give him a questioning look, they're engaged in a tender embrace. His lips are soft and his kiss now familiar and she wishes for a lifetime of such encounters. When he pulls her into his lap and holds her she allows herself to believe that such a life is possible.

"Max, there's nothing I want more than to be with you. Nothing."

Sighing, she clings to him, feeling weak yet safe encased in his arms.

"I need this," she mumbles against his shoulder, "I think I'll die if I can't have at least this… if I can't have you."

"Me too," he confesses. "I don't know what I'd do if you were gone again."

"I'll never be gone again," she promises, praying that her words stay true.

"I'm yours," she whispers, firm in her decision. "Your mine."

"I know," he replies, for the first time in his life completely certain about his place in the world.

"I know."

_**Fin. **_

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**So there it is. I hoped you all liked it. As always, reviews are** **very much appreciated.**


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